the sound of her was in the street
flayed to an ochre asphalt
dripped down from a generous bourbon
fermentation brings a night that doesn't hurt
the stench of cancer is in her vomit:
she knows she doesn't have long
until it's shit in the sheets
and a pain that can't be described
it hurts just to blink
and you can't even
slow it down
but before
before this time
that doesn't feel real
she was real
and a figure like Venus out of fresh dough
i heard her fingernails when they touched me
her eyes were planets
crevasses of green and blue
and it was better than flying
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